


this house don’t feel like home

by allieteration



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-02
Updated: 2020-03-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22983181
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allieteration/pseuds/allieteration
Summary: in this long-form one-shot, ensuing liam’s cocaine overdose at the blunder of eldest daughter fiona, lip discovers himself feeling like what was his is no longer—until maxine “max” finch, a lifelong companion of the gallagher clan, offers an adventure to dairy queen and a shoulder to lean on.
Relationships: Lip Gallagher/Original Character(s)
Kudos: 4





	this house don’t feel like home

**Author's Note:**

> although shameless is categorized as a “dramedy”, oftentimes highlighting the humorous circumstances of residing on the southside of chicago in a modern-day society—to me, it’s a story of the hardships of real, honest livelihood, from childhood, to adolescence, to young and old adulthood. in this one-shot, i wanted to introduce a character that’s been brimming in my head and coincide it with a heartwrenching tale of overcoming while honoring the characterizations of the gallagher crew. learn to love max as i have, and learn that a home can be built wherever and with whomever you need.

the moonlight cascaded down unto cook county, chicago, like butter melting over belgian waffles at dawn, strawberries arrayed across the velvet of the simmering batter, maple syrup settling into the square cutouts.lip was on his trek back to the gallagher household from the train station, puffing out an exhale from his camel cigarette into the nighttime atmosphere, the reverberating rattle of the l train on its track echoing across the neighborhood—a familiar sight for a gallagher on the southside.only tonight was different.fiona was being processed at cook county jail, and ian and debbie and carl were awake in their beds, honey brown and aquamarine eyes fluttering open and closed in attempts to catch shut-eye.maxine finch was at the kitchen table, painting out a portrait of liam.she couldn’t discern if it was insensitive or not—but she painted when she was uncomfortable or distressed to alleviate the symptoms.there was a polaroid photograph of him in her wallet, and it was of him with a pair of carl’s underwear atop his head, his grin brilliant, and his button nose scrunched.she wanted to immortalize him to this moment—this day.it was a june evening where the crickets’ melody was abundant and the air was humid, a week before school let out for summertime vacation, and he was barely a year old.max had been nannying for the gallaghers while they attended another riveting rouse of searching for frank alongside kev and v.she had only gotten her polaroid camera the day before with her hard-earned cash, and decided to utilize her first film photograph on him.it was nothing short of beautifully nostalgic.the gallaghers discovered frank under a bridge, intoxicated, but alive, and they returned home, had a family dinner, and each advised max to frame the picture of liam.it was a heartwarming day—and this one had been heartwrenching.

lip approached the back door to the gallagher house and corkscrewed the knob to open the scuffed doorframe, stepping across the threshold, breathing in the fragrance of nicotine and the orange juice max was sipping on.the household felt like it wasn’t his anymore, like he had transcended through a. portal that landed him in an alternate universe.the cocaine was still dispensed on the pile of laundry liam had been unconscious on, the zip bag on the linoleum flooring next to it.he glanced over at max, contentedly painting, and frowned.

“i can clean it up,” she muttered, her english accent doing pirouettes in her sentence.she was stroking the paintbrush onto the canvas in a striking brown for liam’s pigment.

“i got it,” lip replied, and kneeled down to grasp the baggy, equipping a dishtowel fo scrub out the substance.

max stood upright and positioned her paintbrush in the solo cup of water, the oil paint spidering out, absorbing itself.she shuffled over to lip and knelt down beside him and teardrops pooled along his waterline.

“he’ll be okay, lip,” she whispered, enveloping him with her arm, the purple nail polish on her fingertips chipped, feeling him shivering with his weeping.“we _all_ will be.”

lip sniffled and wiped his nostrils with his jacket sleeve, expelling an exasperated sigh.he gazed over at max, his azure irises a winsome softness that pressurized against max’s heart. _“will you stay?”_

“anything you need,” she nodded, and he positioned himself upright, holding out a hand to max.she clutched it, tightly, but gently, and followed him as he guided her up the stairs and into his bedroom.the laundry was spread like marmalade across the flooring upstairs, and the corridor possessed the aroma of weed, likely ian smoking a joint, the lighting dim and hazy.debbie’s name was printed in multi-colored, polka-dotted letters across her closed door, the warmth of the antiquated house permeated throughout the insulation against the wintertide.

he tumbled onto his mattress, holding out his arms for max to follow suit.he only yearned for the intimacy of embrace, for being still alongside one another while the darkness set in.max breathed into his collarbone while he intertwined with her wavy strawberry blonde hair, plaiting them through the crevices of his fingers.

there was a knock at the sliding door of the bedroom, and lip muttered a signal permitting their entrance; it was debbie, whose nose was dripping from her stifled whimpering in her bedroom.max sat upright, and waved her over towards her, cloaking her in a coaxing, pacifying embrace as she wept.max hadn’t felt the weight of liam’s overdose and fiona’s blunder until then; until witnessing their tragedy like pompeii, all ash and catastrophic devastation.

“that’s it,” max huffed, and jolted up off of the bed frame, tugging on a pair of denim jeans with daisies painted on them, and a mustard yellow, cableknit sweater, flipping her tresses out from the underneath the neckline—both articles of clothing she had left in lip’s bedroom from last time, except last time was something neither of them discussed.not yet anyway.“we’re going to out for ice cream.my treat.”

“it’s _winter_ ,” debbie sniffled, her chestnut eyes roasting a flaming scarlet, and max glanced at her with a pointed look.

“ _anytime_ is ice cream time, especially now,” max responded, and lip, despite his anguish, cracked a smile, however subtle.this is what max was masterful at; supporting the gallaghers in spite of their dysfunction.she had her respective share of turbulent circumstances; of her uncle rupert and aunt jessamine she had illegally immigrated with from europe, who were effortlessly toxic for one another; of her mother who was incarcerated for murdering her father; of the sex workers who had raised her in her aunt and uncle’s brothel—the best damn brothel on the southside; of knowing the gallaghers since early childhood, and falling in love with lip.this tempestuous boy whose brain was on fire with knowledge and alcohol and drug abuse and compassion.when she was a little girl, she wondered if he would not just love her back, but love her how she loved him; wholly, unconditionally, and with purpose.she knew the answer now.

max stirred an already awake twosome of ian and carl from their beds, demanded everybody dress warm, and soon, they were ambling through the neighborhood to the dairy queen on the corner, the nighttime frigid with wintry chicago temperatures and snow flurries surging through the sky like moths at lamplights.debbie’s mitten-clad hand held max’s, and lip had his arms hooked around ian and carl’s necks, which were swathed with tattered, knitted scarves.

max ordered them each a blizzard of their choosing, the cashier grumbling about how it was minutes from closing, the heat of the establishment veiling them from the arctic outdoors, and the air inside a whiff of chocolate syrup and mopped floors.they congested themselves into a dining booth, and max watched complacently as ian, debbie, and carl consumed spoonfuls of delectable ice cream, lip sat beside her, hands entwined on the tabletop.

max’s preferred part of the experience was that none of the siblings questioned or ridiculed her and lip’s displays of affection, but instead, bantered amongst one another and smeared ice cream on each others’ noses.debbie squealed when carl deposited a brownie chunk down the neckline of her shirt, and ian, all freckles and teeth, laughed on.lip gazed over at max, who was tying her hair back with a ribbon, and she beamed at him, alight with colors.

the reality was that the gallaghers, kevin, v, and half of the southside had been placing bets on max and lip like racehorses—when they would at long last admit their romantic feelings to one another, or perhaps only one party would, and how it would transpire.max recognized and acknowledged that lip didn’t love her the way she loved him.she accepted that.and yet—there were moments like that fateful twilight where it made sense to him.that loving max was undoubtedly the easiest thing he had ever endeavored into.this wouldn’t last.he would unearth another, like karen or mandy—max’s closest friend—and he would keep max near for the fallout.this was her infinite spin cycle.somehow, she was okay with that.

“what?” she queried when lip wouldn’t glanced away, and she put her arms down at her sides, her locks fixed in a ponytail.

“thank you,” he nodded, and she understood that he meant it, and thus, she rested her head on his shoulder.

a moment passed before he muttered, “i’m grateful for you,” and max sat upright, unhinging her jaw to reply, but carl sputtered something asinine about his latest “science” project, and soon, the subject shifted.

eventually, an employee shooed them out of the dairy queen as a result of closing hours, and they each locked arms together, shuffling back down the street toward home.

max had never truthfully had a veritable home.she wrote stories about them when she was a little girl, and she painted cottages on lakes with fairy gardens.it was something she craved, like sugar in baked goods or expensive cappuccinos from hipster hotspots.that evening, however—she began a different story on her typewriter.a story about a sister who played pretend as a mother, and five monkeys who followed in her footsteps.about an english girl begging for food on the street corner, and the two boys who offered her a meal at their abode with the minimal resources they had.about a place that invited chaos, yet comfort and acceptance.even if sometimes it didn’t feel like it as the foundation crumbled, this was her home. she hoped, despite everything, that she could keep it.


End file.
